The Circle
by Lennelle
Summary: Sam attends a support group.


I was talking to a friend about hallucifer from season 7 and all the horrifying implications he made about what happened to Sam in the cage. We also discussed how disappointed we were with the last few episodes of season 11: the fact that Sam was forced to work with Lucifer and share the bunker with him really bothered us, especially when Sam's abuse at Lucifer's hands was completely ignored. No one seemed to remember what Lucifer had done to Sam (although they seem to be bringing it back up this season). Why set up season 11 with Sam's visions of the cage, fully portraying his complete fear of Lucifer, only to ignore it at the end of the season? All of this led me to write this fic.

This is set post-11x14 'The Vessel'

WARNINGS: mentions of rape and sexual abuse.

* * *

Sam doesn't know why he's here. He's not entirely sure when he made the decision to come here. He'd told Dean he was going for a jog, put on his running shoes and everything.

He should leave.

He shouldn't be here.

People are slipping by him in the doorway. He mumbles apologies and steps inside. One step, he can't go further than that. He stares at the circle of seats in the centre of the room, the group of people filling them up. Most of them are women, there's only one man other than Sam. He's more of a boy, really, must be half Sam's age.

Everyone is settling down, quiet as a smiling woman takes her seat.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she says. She glances around, smiles at everyone there. Her eyes fall on Sam. She asks, "Are you joining us today?"

Everyone else turns and looks at him. His mouth opens but the words catch at the back of his throat.

"There's a seat free here," the younger man offers. He still has baby fat on his face, acne on his skin, he's barely seen the world outside of high school. Sam thinks, _that boy shouldn't have to be here._

The room echoes his footsteps as he walks over, it's so quiet, and Sam is taking up so much space. He feels every eye on his back. He thinks, _I'm not one of these people. I deserved what I got. I paid for my sins. But these people, they're innocent._

Sam lowers himself into the empty seat, the plastic is uncomfortably hard and the metal groans under his weight. The woman smiles at him and says, "Are you comfortable with telling us your name?"

Sam thinks for a moment, wonders if he could lie. He's Eddie Van Halen, he's Freddie Mercury.

"I'm Sam."

"It's nice to meet you, Sam," the woman says. Everyone choruses their agreement.

Sam nods. In reality, it's not nice to meet him. It's not nice to meet any of these people. Not under these circumstances.

"You're in a safe space here, Sam," the woman says. Sam squints to read her name tag: Sharon. "Everyone here has experienced something similar. You will find nothing but support and understanding here."

Sam nods. Every inch of him is screaming to run, but he remains firmly seated, fingers tracing the scar on his left palm. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath. He thinks _, I've killed monsters with my bare hands._

He shouldn't be afraid.

When he opens his eyes again, the boy next to him is staring. Around them, the group has moved on with the conversation and a woman around Sam's age is talking.

" – and he's been so supportive throughout this all, but I can tell he wants to have sex. He's been trying, and he's been so delicate with me and careful and, it's been two years. We haven't slept together in two years, not since. I'm afraid he'll become tired of me."

Sharon looks every inch sympathetic when she says, "Sandra, I know that isn't true. Joshua loves you very much, and sex is a natural part of marriage or any relationship. I think maybe he just needs to understand a little more. Clearly, he's trying to make things comfortable for you, but if you're not ready you need to let him know."

She turns, eyes moving around the rest of the group. "If you aren't ready for sex, that's completely okay. If you are ready, that's okay too. This your decision. No one but you has ownership over your body."

Sam snorts. He thinks, _my body was created for someone else. My existence was made for someone other than me. I was made to say yes, even if I didn't want to._

Sharon turns to him, frowning. Sam clears his throat, straightens his face.

"Is there something you'd like to say?" Sharon asks, voice gentle.

Sam shakes his head.

"That's okay, Sam," she says. "Just remember that everyone here understands. No one will judge you."

Sam glances to the side. The kid next to him is still staring, eyes wide and waiting. What must Sam look like to this kid? A giant of a man, height and muscles, sitting down at a support group for rape victims. Sam involuntarily shudders. The word itself is like a knife to his spine, and Sam knows exactly what that feels like.

Next thing he knows, he's talking,

"After, uh, what happened, I had a lot of sex. _A lot_. I barely remember most of their names. It was good, it was fun. Both parties were into it. The thing is, I've never been one for one night stands. I, uh, I'm more comfortable having sex in a relationship. I dunno. I guess I wasn't myself back then."

 _Literally_ , Sam thinks, _I didn't have a soul._

"Anyway," he clears his throat, "I don't have sex that often anymore. I don't associate sex with… what happened. I don't think I do, anyway. Other things throw me back to that place. Little things. But I think about it every day. I can't not. I dream about it. It's… it's not so bad now, not like it was. But recently, I came back into contact with the guy that did it and… yeah."

His face is hot and he knows his skin must be turning red. He clamps his mouth shut. He has never told anyone that. Not even Dean. Only Sam, and now these people, know what the Devil did to him.

Sharon is talking about restraining orders and telling Sam to think about contacting the police. Sam thinks, _what will the police do to the Devil? The Devil that's wearing my friend's skin…_

Sharon doesn't look like she plans on shutting up any time soon so Sam says, "It's okay. It's being dealt with."

She relaxes marginally at that and Sam gives her a small, reassuring smile. He knows that it's inevitable that he'll have to come face-to-face with Lucifer again. If they want Cas back, and God, Sam wants that more than anything, they need to face Lucifer. Sam needs to face Lucifer.

But less than two weeks ago, Lucifer was sliding his hand _inside_ Sam, touching his soul, laughing all the while. Sam has barely slept since. He can't close his eyes without thinking _he's here_ and he has to open his eyes again just to check.

Around him, the conversation has moved on. Sam thinks maybe he should be listening, it's not fair to these other people if he doesn't. But he can't. He can't listen to these people talk about what was done to them. Just as Sam can't think about what was done to him. _One hundred and eighty years._

He stands up abruptly and everyone cuts off the conversation to look in his direction.

"Sorry," Sam blurts, inching out of the circle. "I, uh, I've got somewhere to be. But. Um. Thanks for having me. I appreciate it, I do. I hope things get better…"

He trails off. He thinks, _how do things get better?_

Next thing, he bolts out the door, Sharon calling after him. Sam sprints all the way home, sweating through his clothes, the soles of his feet aching. He pushes himself, makes himself burn all the way through. He thinks, _I really did go for a jog._

Dean is in the same place Sam had left him at the motel, only now there's a half-eaten burger lying on the coffee table next to three empty beer bottles.

The second Sam walks through the door, Dean says, "What took you so long?"

"Um. Took a longer route, got a little lost," Sam pants, dropping down on the edge of the closest bed. Dean watches him, frowning.

"You okay?"

Sam gulps, nods. "I'm good."

Hesitantly, Dean looks away. "I got you some food, it's on top of the mini fridge. Might be cold by now."

Sam smiles. "That's okay. Thanks."

Dean nods, peeks at him again, brow furrowed. He doesn't say whatever's on his mind.

* * *

I'm in the middle of writing something happy, I swear. But first, I needed to get this fic off my chest.


End file.
